


The Artist

by drawingblinds (breathtaken)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-29
Updated: 2004-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:23:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/drawingblinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Javert, being an artist..." - Victor Hugo</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist

**Author's Note:**

> Taking Hugo literally.

He sits hunched over a cheap wooden desk, smudging the shadow of a stone with the edge of his thumb. He wears just a simple shirt and trousers, his greying hair working loose from the ponytail at the nape of his neck. His greatcoat is draped across the back of the chair; he is on duty no longer. Two candles glow upon his desk, for though he thinks it a waste, he is older now and his eyesight wanes. But he would never admit to such a fault.

He dips his smallest brush in gunmetal grey and applies it to the cracks in the stonework with exacting precision. This piece has taken a while, and he begins to droop in fatigue, but he is ever patient and knows the folly of speed when painting. Still, he will have to sleep soon, else he will be tired tomorrow. And his standard of work cannot slip, no matter how pleasurable this activity.

Pleasurable? No, that is not right. It is a necessity; he has to paint, ever since one day in his thirtieth year, when a box of paints called to him from the window of a shop. Before that he had known nothing of art, except as something the rich wasted their money on. After several days of fighting temptation, the desire had become a hunger too strong, and he bought the box in the window. Some damned gypsy curse, most probably, some defect bestowed on him by his vagabond parents. But curse or no, the pictures he could create showed undeniable skill. He could reproduce a scene from his window or his memory with an accuracy only hampered by the limits of his cheap equipment. But still, his pictures seemed flat and lifeless. They lacked lustre, depth and dimension. They were poor substitutes for reality.

Yet Javert did not give up. As well as the compulsion in his blood that urged him to return to the little shop, there was now the knowledge that he was skilled at this pursuit, it would not be worthless. So he bought the purest powders with which to mix his own colours. He bought many brushes of varying sizes and types. He knew it was important that his tools were faultless. He bought books too, weighty, leather-bound tomes that instructed on technique. It came to a great deal of money, but the reckless gypsy inside was convinced it was worth every sou.

His painting began sporadically, but after a few days without, the urge he had thought sated would return several times as strongly. Soon he was taking brush to paper almost every evening, and things began to happen which he would not have thought possible. It seemed as though some days he was not just painting with a paste but with himself also, with his mind. If something had gone wrong that day, if some miscreant had escaped justice, his anger and frustration would seep onto the paper. Colours would be more vivid, scenes more violent than he has intended. If he felt gloomy, landscapes would be bleak and dull. One a day where he felt satisfied with his lot, his creation would have a light optimism which he actually felt the most critical of. A dimension seemed to be lacking, and often on the days of greatest contentment he would not try and paint at all. When his mood was low it was a necessity, yet he never felt serene afterwards, just purged and hollow. He supposed that was the price one had to pay.

He rises, takes the brush to a large bowl of water, cleans and dries it with great regard. It is late, and he can do nothing more until the morrow. He cleans his palette also, noting that he will have to change his water yet again, a tiresome but essential task. he changes into his nightshirt, blows out the candles and climbs into bed, ready for sleep. A sliver of moonlight creeps through the crack in his curtains and glints on the still-wet paint, the picture showing the bridge over the Seine and its swirling waters below, and not a star in the sky.


End file.
